


symbiotic

by sungmemoonstruck



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:24:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungmemoonstruck/pseuds/sungmemoonstruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s more to both of them than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	symbiotic

There’s more to both of them than meets the eye.

There’s songs and dances and poetry—not quite the kind Jehan likes, but the lyrics of a world shrouded in desolation and darkened clouds, the kind that talks about love that was never there and the kind that makes you aware of that aching space in your soul. There’s a roughness in their veins that keeps them up at night, fighting for sleep while their skin itches on the inside, making every position a nightmare. There’s something that pulls them from deep inside, like strings on a puppet; something that makes them pull their hair out at times; something that makes them stop and see the world for what it really is, makes them look out the window and forget everything that surrounds them. They watch raindrops pelt the glass for what seems like ages.

When they turn away from the window, they catch each other’s gaze and give one another the faintest of smiles.

He’s a curtain of cynicism and despair wrapped around a bottle, a ticking time bomb that reeks of alcohol and paint and wasted moments. Laughter like a blade, words like the reds and yellows and blues and purples on his pallet, because no matter how much he tries to paint over his art, he can never truly erase his work. His words usually have far more meaning to them than he lets on, yet he wears his heart on his sleeve as if he just _waiting_ for someone’s arrow to strike a hole inside of it. His eyes have never seen a lighter world than when his blonde god is there.

She’s the kind of sunshine that emerges, slowly, after an overcast day. Her voice could be a melody and her eyes could be the stars people pray to in their darkest hours. Her heart’s not on her sleeve—rather, she wears hers like a crown, surrounded by an aura of golden waves and fresh falling snow. But the wind in her winter grows sharper, colder, harsher the more she thinks, the more she frowns, the more she wonders about her past and remembers the snippets hiding inside the cupboards of her mind. She knows the cupboards well, she used to hide in them herself. Sometimes they call her name, but she’s learned to hide her reflexive shudder.

They’re such polar opposites, it’s a wonder they find solace in each other.

But when they catch each other’s gazes from the window and smile, their smiles carry a dictionary’s worth of words they could never describe aloud. They touch more out of necessity than anything casual—entwining fingers or caressing hair and faces, sleeping in each other’s arms—and it’s not static or the sandpaper around their blood they feel, but the wind on their skin, the _freedom_ it gives them to wield nothing, not even armor, for a time. Even when they’re not touching, they simply feel the comfort of each other’s presence in the room. They strain for that comfort everywhere, for it makes them feel less alone, and God knows the lengths they will go to win a battle against loneliness, even if it means the tragic fate of any mortal soldier.

He calms her cloud. She finds his light.

They’re not so different after all.


End file.
